Q Cards
by StoryWeaver56
Summary: When Barclay finds himself acting the lead in another play, his nerves get the best of him and he wishes everything will go well. But, when a certain mischievous Q hears his pleas, everyone's in for more than they expected!
1. That's Your Q!

**_Chapter 1: That's Your Q!_**

Lieutenant Reginald Barclay wrung his hands, heart pounding with anticipation. He could hear the people crowding the converted Ten-Forward lounge, moving to their seats in the temporary theater. Great. He hated crowds. Next to the transporter and germs, crowds—especially crowds that came to see him perform—practically gave him hives.

Last time Barclay had been asked to take part in Dr. Beverly Crusher's theater workshop he had been hesitant, but had agreed to go though with it. His peers and associates knew he had always been fascinated in holodecks and fantasy worlds, so they had encouraged him to try acting. But, like most events that put him under a spotlight, Barclay had been terrified to the degree of being practically crippled.

What had made him agree to that insanity, he did not know. His lead performance in _Cyrano de Bergerac _had been a little better than the effects of splitting an atom, to be exact. As soon as his booted feet had touched the stage, his stomach had churned and his heart had pounded mercilessly, to the point of breathlessness. How was he supposed to say his lines if his mind was blank and he couldn't take a breath to speak even one word?

But, he had pushed through and finished the play to applause. No, the applause had not had the sound of an encore ringing through it, but he hadn't expected that. If anything, Barclay had expected to do better. He had known his lines inside and out. He was so very comfortable with playing roles, being someone else instead of plain old Starfleet Lieutenant junior grade Reginald Barlclay. But, as soon as he got in front of an audience, all his passion made way to the overwhelming rapids of fear that ran through his body in gushes so crippling he couldn't keep his hands steady, his lips from trembling. _Oh, why am I such a coward?_ he had asked himself many times. _Why can't I just do what everyone else can do, for once?_

Despite the fact that he had not been satisfied with his performance in _Cyrano_, the lovely Deanna Troi had told him he had been very brave for doing that—for putting himself out there. Barclay had understood her words, understood her praise, but had not _felt _it. No, Barclay knew when he deserved praise, and his performance in _Cyrano _had not been worthy.

Despite this, that one day Barclay had gone to Dr. Crusher to get a worrying mark on his right arm checked for disease, she had actually asked him back—had asked him to act the lead in the next play, _The Beggar's Opera_, by John Gay. She had explained how it was actually a ballad opera, but they were just going to perform it as a play. Barclay remembered how he had leaned against a biobed, shaking his head vehemently at the thought, insisting he was no good.

"Reg," the Chief Medical Officer had said while scanning his arm for the fatal, alien infection that was undoubtedly eating him alive as they spoke, "with each play you will only get more confident." At these words, Barclay had stopped in mid-protest, thinking her words through. Maybe she was right. Maybe he just needed more time to get accustomed to this.

After being told the mark on his arm was just a freckle, Barclay had blushed bright red, rubbed his freckle, and stumbled out of sickbay, muttering all the while.

And, in the midst of those mumbles, some evil turn of the fates had made his tongue speak those dreaded words: "I will take the role."

As soon as Barclay was in the corridor outside of sickbay, he wished with all his heart and soul he could storm back in there and take those words back. But, he had said them, and he would keep to his word.

"Oh, I _wish_ I had no fear on the stage!" he had yelled out to the heavens, lifting his head and crying out with the passion that was usually too shy to leave the confines of his heart. His eyes were closed as he said these imploring words, so he didn't see the flash of bright white light that encompassed the hall with his pleas. And, with the words that would bring him more than he expected, Lieutenant Barclay had strode down the hall, shoulders slumped with the burden of new stresses upon them.

Now, Barclay stood in the back, bedecked in eighteenth century clothing, an expression of anxiety shadowing his features. He peeked out at the growing number of people coming in to see the show, and his heart dropped to his feet at the sight. There was Commander Riker—oh, no—Counselor Troi, and—_great_—Captain Picard. He would embarrass himself again in front of all of his peers and superiors.

Barclay turned his head away and leaned against the wall, eyes closed in panic. His stomach turned and he thought he was going to be sick. Wait—if he was sick, they wouldn't let him perform! He could be off the hook!

He ran over to a corner, adrenaline pressing him on. He held his stomach and wondered if he could actually make himself throw up in the corner. He didn't think for one instant he would be more embarrassed by this than by going on stage and surely making a fool of himself.

"Reginald." Barclay wrenched himself up from clutching his stomach at the sound of his name. "Don't do this to yourself. Bulimia is not becoming of you."

Whose voice was that? It sounded almost familiar—like _maybe _he's heard it before. Whosever's voice it was, it sounded…benevolent? Or, maybe, sarcastic benevolence? Barclay wasn't good enough at reading vocal inflections to really know.

"Who's there?" he asked, voice quivering. He looked around, seeing no one. _Maybe I'm just imagining things again, _he thought, dismissing the mysterious words.

Well, there was one thing he was sure about, and that was that his stomach was suddenly feeling at least bearable, and he was sure Dr. Crusher was looking for him right about now. Either, he run away and hide on a ship that would be impossible to hide on, given the amount of technology that could find him, or he grit his teeth and bear it. Glancing at the doors to the corridor that symbolized freedom and noticing all the people coming through them, Barclay knew he had no choice but to bear it.

Barclay hesitantly strode back over to all the backstage commotion—commotion that only heightened his nervous emotions.

"Reg, where were you?" the frantic voice of Dr. Crusher said through his whirling thoughts. She rushed up to him, her dress swishing with the movement.

"Oh, just over there," Barclay answered lamely, pointing over in the general vicinity of his hiding spot.

Beverly gave him a brief questioning look but didn't press him. "You missed your cue!" She turned him around and gave him a small shove in the direction of the stage.

"Uh…" Barclay stammered. It was more of just a feeble sound coming out of his mouth than a stammer. A sound that would have been a scream for mercy if he had had the breath.

Something in the last thing that Dr. Crusher had said to him rang a bell. _You missed your cue…_

Just then, Barclay realized to his horror that his feet were moving toward the stage without his consent.

_What? No, I'm not ready for this!_ he cried to himself. His arms flailed about as he tried to grab onto the backdrops, pulling himself away from the awful scrutiny the stage allowed the audience.

But, with a clatter and a bang, Barclay was on the stage, staring out into the group of people all staring at him expectantly.

After freezing in front of everybody like that old saying, "a deer in the headlights"—whatever that was supposed to mean—he made his way to the table he was supposed to be sitting at. His mind whirled and froze in a jerking, cacophonous motion. He thought to himself for the umpteenth time that he would rather be anywhere else but here.

The words Ensign Caldwell, the officer who was playing the Old Woman, droned on as Barclay tried to control the pounding of his heart.

_What are my lines, what are my lines? _he thought desperately, praying his cue to speak would never come.

"'…so as to bring her off.'" Lieutenant Irinap, an Andorian playing the role of Filch, finished.

Barclay stared blankly out at the audience.

"Um," he heard Irinap clear his throat.

Silence.

"'And she hopes you will order matters so as to bring her off!'" Irinap said again, hoping this repetition would bring Barclay out of his paralyzed state.

"'As—'" Barclay started, then stopped. He just couldn't think of the lines he was supposed to speak past the thunderous pounding of his heart.

In the audience, Commander Riker watched on in pain, already willing this play to end soon. He looked at his boots, he rubbed his beard and stared at the ceiling, he shifted around, uncomfortable as hell. As soon as he had heard Lieutenant Barclay would be starring in anther play, he had tried to get out of watching, but Captain Picard had insisted. Riker didn't know how his captain could order him to sit through this torture. He was so embarrassed for the man, it was almost unbearable.

It didn't help that Deanna sat right beside him, her half-Betazoid abilities sensing waves of embarrassment and pain coming from Will Riker. She already had her own feelings of discomfiture, so, for once, she wished she could either turn off her empathic abilities or tell Riker to turn off his emotions. She didn't think either solution would do much good, and began to seriously consider getting up and moving to sit next to Data, creating a wall of nothingness between her and Will. If there was one person who could keep her from drowning in the combined discomfort of both her and Will, it was the emotionless android, sitting there with his own look of pain on his pale features. At least he didn't have the waves of emotions to go with it.

Of course, Deanna couldn't leave Barclay, and she was so genuinely proud of him for doing all this. She knew it was so hard for him, and she encouraged the anxious man with all of her heart. If he could do this, she could sit through it for him.

That is, _if _he could do it.

Suddenly, Deanna noticed Data start to look around, a confused expression on his face.

Riker noticed, too, because he leaned over and asked, warily, "What are you doing, Data?"

"Do you not hear that?" Data asked, peering around the converted Ten-Forward lounge.

"No," Riker whispered. "What?" He knew Data's superior hearing could pick up even the slightest of sounds.

"It seems to be the sound of…crickets."

This last word made Riker furrow his brow. "Crickets?" Riker asked. "Like the insect from Earth?"

Data nodded. "It is certainly the sound of crickets, and it is raising in decibel."

Riker peered around the room, listening.

"What's going on?" Deanna whispered. She could sense the new—almost refreshing—feeling of curiosity coming from Riker.

"Crickets," was all Riker whispered, continuing to look around.

"Crickets?" Troi asked. "Oh," she said, suddenly hearing the sound. "Oh, no."

There was no reason whatsoever for there to be crickets on the ship, or anything that sounded even remotely like crickets. So the only way something impossible could happen was if…

Deanna Troi's dark eyes searched out the large, vibrant hat of Guinan, whom she found sitting only a couple rows in front of her. Right as Deanna laid eyes on the bartender, she noticed Guinan tense. And, with this action, and the rising volume of the humming crickets in the silence that Barclay maintained, things started to fall into place for the counselor.

Someone had come to see the play whether he had a ticket or not.


	2. The Scantily Clothed Audience Technique

_**Chapter 2: The Scantily Clothed Audience Technique**_

Barclay sat at the wooden table on the stage, his breath coming rapidly through his lips. His mind was completely blank, and all he could do was sit there, fear written all over his features.

Lieutenant Irinap surreptitiously leaned closer to him. "'As the wench is very active and industrious…'" he prompted, quietly.

"'As the—'" Barclay began, but his voice came out in only a hoarse whisper. He cleared it. "'As the wench is very active and indenture—ous…'" Barclay finished lamely. _Indenturous? _he thought. _Really, Reg?_

Silence reigned again.

Lieutenant Irinap stared at him for a moment, blue antennae above his white hair swaying subconsciously, wondering what in the Quadrant was going on. At Barclay's silence, the blue alien decided to continue. If the audience didn't know what was going on in the story it sure as hell wasn't Irinap's fault!

"'Tom Gagg, sir, is found guilty.'" Irinap delivered his next line slowly and dramatically, hoping to give Broccoli some time to recover. This man really was something else.

Barclay stood up and began to walk downstage, hoping he could gather more time to think by doing this. The tip of his boot rammed against a leg of the table he had been sitting at, and he tripped clumsily, stumbling before regaining his balance. Then, composing himself, he walked forward. Only as he neared the front of the stage did he realize this close proximity to the audience only made him able to see them better, which, in turn, only made him more nervous.

After a moment of standing awkwardly front and center, Barclay decided his best bet was to say the next line that came to his mind.

"'A LAZY DOG!'" he ended up shouting, a little too loudly. While it was the correct line, Barclay noticed the sudden outburst made the audience members in the front seats jump with surprise. This observation only threw him off again.

Silence.

Up in the stands, Riker's jaw muscles tensed as he wondered if he was going to be able to get through this. The relaxed, come-what-may woman beside him and the unmoving android on the other side did nothing to calm his strong reactions. He wondered how Captain Picard was handling this. Probably no better than the First Officer himself.

At least the sound of the crickets had stopped. Riker hadn't known what the deal was with that.

Back on the stage, Barclay clenched his eyes shut. _I can't do it, _he thought to himself. '_A lazy dog', 'A lazy dog', oh, what's next?_

When he opened his eyes, he noticed the ensign who played the Old Woman had sidled up to him.

A scarf covered her hair and hid her face as she leaned over and whispered in his ear. "'When I took him the time before…'"

Except, the voice was most definitely _not _female. And, when Barclay spun his head over in horror to see who it really was, he noticed a smirk of bemusement on the lips. Barclay glanced up to look into the eyes of the imposter, but they were only those of a blinking, confused Ensign Caldwell.

"Oh…" she muttered, as if wondering why she was this close to the Lieutenant. She looked around to where Irinap stood in the back, his classic eighteenth century Earth clothing contrasting with his alien form, a look of defeat on his blue features. Ensign Caldwell started to take small, covert steps back to him, leaving Barclay to fend for himself.

But, the words just uttered into Barclay's ear echoed in his mind. He opened his mouth, and his once parched throat suddenly felt moist and resonant. "'When I took him the time before,'" he said, lifting his hand for dramatic effect. "'I told him what he would come to if he did not mend his hand!'" After Barclay finished the line, he sighed in relief, thinking his turn over. He looked out at the audience in triumph and started to turn back to where Irinap and Caldwell stood.

But, to his dismay, they stood silent, watching him as if expecting more.

_Oh, no, there's more! _he thought, desperately trying to find the lines within his blank mind.

He swished around on the stage, suddenly remembering Dr. Crusher advising him to never turn his back to the audience. Oh, there was so much to remember! Barclay wished more than anything that he was on the holodeck right then, hidden within a simulation. Of course, if he knew the audience was just a bunch of holograms instead of real flesh and blood, he would be able to get all his lines out, confidently strutting about the stage with the arrogance and charm of the man he wished to be.

But, when it was real, Barclay couldn't utter a sound. All he noticed were the stares of the expectant audience.

They were so intimidating. If only he weren't so intimidated!

Just as he thought this, the converted lounge lit up with a flash of bright light, and a little _fwip! _sound filled the room. Barclay blinked to clear the sudden brightness from his eyes, and when he was able to focus again, his jaw dropped in shock.

Every member of the audience was wearing nothing but their undergarments.

And this fact was just starting to dawn on everyone.


	3. Be Careful What You Wish For

_**Chapter 3: Be Careful What You Wish For**_

The first person to realize what had just happened was none other than Captain Picard. He stood up, cheeks bright red with the unjust embarrassment of it all, and clenched his fists.

"Q!" he yelled, glancing around, knowing just who it was who had done this. After all, who else could it be?

Barclay couldn't help but notice that luckily Irinap, Caldwell, and himself were all still in costume, undergarments thankfully concealed under their period clothing. He had no more time to think what all this meant before he heard another _fwip!_—this time from behind him—and he spun around, shock written all over his face. At the same time, he secretly felt enormous relief at the interruption.

A man in Starfleet command red sat at the table Barclay had just left, feet propped languorously on the table. He was lazily peering at his nails—as if he had been there all along and was completely uninterested in anything going on in the general vicinity.

The man slowly looked up toward the direction of Captain Picard. "You rang?" he answered Picard's summons, keeping to his act of disinterest.

"Q, this is completely uncalled for!" Picard shouted from the audience. "Give us back our clothing and leave us alone!" Picard's cheeks now flushed with the vehemence of his words.

Q smirked, looking back down to idly inspect his nails. Q knew Picard yelled at him from afar because the captain wouldn't dare leave the comfort zone of the audience. Everyone else in the audience was in the same predicament as him, so pulling himself out of the mass would only single him out—an undesired effect. _See! _Q thought to himself. _I know more about how humans think than any of the other Q give me credit for!_

Q glanced back up at the enraged captain, completely unmoved by Picard's display of anger. "Temper, temper, _mon capitaine_! Can't you, for once, sacrifice your own petty needs for the needs of another?"

And, with these ambiguous words, Q lifted his hand. But, before he could snap himself out of sight, he turned to look at the stunned form of Lieutenant Barclay, who was still standing shocked in the middle of the stage, mouth formed into an o. "Be careful what you wish for," Q said, the words dancing quietly off his lips, just loud enough for the diagnostic technician to hear. It was almost captivating how Q's eyes shone with such vast intelligence—all of omniscience expertly captured within those two gleaming orbs—yet his eyes also held the mischievousness of a trickster, the playfulness of a child. Q's lips curved upward once more in a smirk and, in his usual dramatic gesture, he snapped his fingers and willed himself to disappear with a flash of bright light and a solid sound effect to add the cherry on top. Oh, Q loved it when all eyes turned to him!

Captain Picard stared at the spot where the bane of his existence had just sat, those eyes turned to him, radiating that familiar wicked gleam. He grit his teeth in impatience and fury at being toyed with. It didn't help that his lack of clothing only made his temper soar.

If there was one thing Picard knew, he could not let this continue. He needed to nip it in the bud before Q got any more crazy ideas. But, knowing Q, the trickster god probably had a cruel craving to satisfy whether Picard "nipped it in the bud" or not.

Picard noticed the audience was becoming rowdier and more upset as realization set in. Some people, skin laid bare with lack of clothing, got up to leave the hall as quickly as they could, heading for the double doors that led to the corridors, and soon, the safety and privacy of their quarters. Picard looked around at the chaos, wondering why he had to live like this. Why he had to live wondering everyday if Q was out for some trouble, and if he would be today's prime target for the omnipotent.

Things only got worse when the doors to the corridor wouldn't open, and someone actually started pounding desperately on them.

Q was obviously not done with his fix.

Deanna Troi made her way through the crowd of milling people, trying to get to her captain. She held her head high, not succumbing to embarrassment of her bared body like many of the other people were. Deanna was a confident woman, and appearing in her underwear was—while still uncomfortable—nothing she couldn't tolerate.

"Captain!" she shouted, her accented voice reaching his ears through the noise of the crowd. "There is much tension in here! People are starting to feel the need for a mob mentality! They're both uncomfortable and frightened, knowing Q has something to do with all of this."

Picard listened to the half-Betazoid's words, not liking what the empath felt. He knew he had to do something quick.

Captain Picard nodded curtly before he looked around the room and cleared his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Guinan trying to calm the people around her, a look of anger and outrage on her features. Guinan _hated _Q, and being toyed with by him was not on her list of tolerable activities. Knowing Guinan, Picard thought she would do her best to calm the situation, and deal with the outrageous omnipotent later, if she had the opportunity.

"Enough!" Picard shouted, trying to make his voice heard over the clamor. It worked—people immediately quieted down at the steel in their captain's tone. "Q might have taken our clothing, but he did _not _take our dignity. If we cannot leave, then we will finish the play like we would have done before he showed up. We must not prove to Q that we are uncomfortable with ourselves! That will only strengthen his biased views of us!"

Picard's words made the lounge fall silent, and everyone started to turn back to their seats with the comprehension of their captain's wise words. Nobody liked Q and his holier-than-thou behavior toward humans, and nobody wanted Q to win this battle. Picard sighed in relief at the calm response of the members of his ship.

In the meantime, Barclay stared in astonishment at the audience. He barely noticed Dr. Crusher peek her head onto the set, wondering what in the galaxy was going on. Caldwell and Irinap stood silently behind him, both astounded as well. This performance was _not_, in any way,going as they had expected.

As the audience settled back into their seats, Barclay, to his surprise, started to feel more relaxed. He felt almost like the show was ruined anyway, so how could he top this? No, he realized, there was nothing he could do to make this evening worse than it already was.

And what was that Q had said to him? _Be careful what you wish for_. What was that supposed to mean?

Before Barclay could think on this any longer, he heard a voice. Except, the voice didn't come from anywhere near him. Instead, it seemed to come from within him—from within his head.

_Finish your lines_, it said.

_Finish your lines_, his mind echoed to him.

It seemed reasonable enough to him.

Barclay opened his mouth and began to recite the words that, with the ceasing of his errant nerves, were starting to come back to him. He began from the beginning of his mini-monologue. "'A lazy dog! When I took him the time before, I told him what he would come to if he did not mend his hand. This is death without reprieve. I may venture to…'" Barclay broke off, his heart starting to pound again with the piercing stares of the calmed audience. Of course, not all of them were calm, and certainly none of them were completely composed—except, naturally, for Data—but most of them were giving it their best efforts not to let Q win.

Despite the fact that an audience clothed ridiculously only in their undergarments was the audience that was watching him, Barclay started to feel his hands begin to shake, and sweat pour down the side of his face. The viewers _still _made him nervous.

After a moment of Barclay staring at the audience in fear again, Q—who was watching from on high—couldn't take it anymore. He had tried to help the poor mortal after hearing his wish that day after Barclay had left sickbay. Yes, Q sometimes granted wishes. But only if it amused him.

Q had tried so much to grant this wish, but it was proving to be more of a challenge than he had initially expected. Of course, his client wasn't the most charismatic of the group of obtuse mortals who called themselves humans. Q had tried coaching Barclay, had taken the form of that woman to whisper his lines in his ear. Q had even disrobed the audience, knowing that imagining the viewers in their underwear was something humans considered a way of calming stage fright. That technique was very strange, if you asked him, but, for once, Q hadn't donned his judicial robes: he wasn't here to judge, he was just there to grant a wish.

And, maybe a bit more.

But, still, Barclay couldn't be calmed. How badly had Broccoli (Q liked the name _Enterprise _gossip had bequeathed the nervous man; it had the ring of Q's own flair to it) been bullied as a child?

The benevolence within Q's heart turned toward the poor, petty little bipedal mammal in the center of the rudimentary stage. To be so insecure you could not speak in front of an audience of half-clothed barely sentient mortals? Tsk, tsk, now, _that_ was the lowest of the lows. Q couldn't even imagine such a malady, so he decided it was time to extend a godly helping hand to the pathetic man.

Barclay stood once again before his audience, his forgotten lines unable to penetrate the painful silence of the converted Ten-Forward lounge. He heard an uncomfortable cough from the audience, breaking the silence for two seconds. This was undoubtedly the longest evening of his life. If only he could just finish his lines!

But, before Barclay could give up in defeat, large words suddenly lit up the back of the darkened room. He squinted, trying to see them better. And, with this action, the words seemed to get bigger.

_What is that? _he asked himself. He felt the others on the stage shift behind him, also trying to get a better look.

He started to silently read the words, quickly comprehending that those were his lines. His mouth moved silently as he scanned the words. Barclay noticed other members of the audience turn to look at the wall, hoping to see what he was seeing.

Then, as if in impatience, a little dot appeared above the first word. By reflex, Barclay spoke. "'Let,'" he read aloud. The dot bounced over to the next word. "'Betty,'" he voiced. "'Sly. Know. That.'" The dot started to move faster. "'I'll, save, her, from, transportation,'" and, now, faster. "'For I can get more by her staying in England!'" Barclay finished this last part triumphantly, wonderfully relieved he had just finished what lines he had left before Irinap took over. He didn't care that he had finished to a spoon-fed presentation of his lines—he had finished. And that was it—he was done for the night. Barclay had a feeling the audience would be fine with that, being done for the night, themselves.

Lieutenant Barclay smiled up at the audience, more relieved than anything. The viewers had started to get restless again, realizing it would be much harder for them to sit through the entire play with such a small amount of clothing on. Of course, some of the aliens sat contently, hands neatly clasped in their laps, more comfortable with their bare skin than others. But, Barclay noticed, that was curiously just a few. It was interesting how so many alien cultures considered clothing to be an essential part of day-to-day life.

Someone sitting near the doors impatiently stood up and attempted once again to get them open. It worked, and he pushed through and out into the corridor. The lines of Lieutenant Irinap faded off into nothing as others who saw this wasted no time making their own ways to the doors. Before Barclay knew it, his entire audience was leaving, bunching up to get to the safety of the corridors. No one protested. Despite the fact that the people wanted to get out so badly, they each kept their personal space, trying not to touch one another in their vulnerable states.

Barclay watched on in silence, just grateful that _he _had not been the one to ruin the play and that he had finished his lines. Yes, he had had some help from a type of cue cards, or Q cards—if he guessed the benefactor correctly—but he didn't care. It was over and he would tell Dr. Crusher his understudy could take the next performances. If there would even _be _another performance.

After all the audience had filtered out, the actors stood in stunned silence.

"Well," Barclay said, voice still a bit hoarse from all the stress he had just gone through. "I'll be on the holodeck."

And with that, he strode out the doors in full costume, hoping to purge his stresses and calm his nerves in a nice, refreshingly fake simulation of reality.

In the corridor, Q leaned casually against the wall, arms folded over his chest, watching with detached interest the bustling of the audience members as they modestly made their ways to their quarters. They didn't even notice the man dressed as a Starfleet captain watching them scurry away, a look of haughty knowing in his eyes. There was only one thought on their puny minds. Q shook his head at the primal activity of it all.

A smirk upturned Q's lips again as he thought of Picard's enraged response to the omnipotent's ministrations. Yes, Q knew his job was done for the day.

* * *

_Q might've won this day, but not tomorrow! And poor Barclay, will he ever conquer his fear? I hope you enjoyed my silly little story. Q is always a favorite to write! I will love you forever if you please send off even just a little **review**! Also, if you liked this story, you might like my other _Star Trek _stories, too! Check out my profie page! As always, thanks for reading! :)_


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